I am a beacon of light for my homeland. My quaint village, serene yet vibrant, is a haven of peace. The youth, with their carefree spirit, fill the air with laughter and song, unbothered by the world beyond. Even the birds know to respect the tranquility of our lives.
From the winding road that leads to the bustling city, the countryside remains unchanged. I love to gaze out and let my thoughts wander as I speed by in the fast-moving vans. My people, ever resilient, continue to drink from the well of life and mind their own business.
Today marks what would have been my late mother's 94th birthday. She was one of my favorite people, a true embodiment of our country's spirit. Rest in peace, dear mother.
With Christmas just twelve days away, I look forward to blending once again with my countrymen, like a well-orchestrated steel band. From New York to the Caribbean shores, no holiday celebration is complete without the melodious sound of the steel pan in Queen Park.
Whether we cry in a storm or dance in the rain, this time of year celebrates life and honors those we've lost. I am a ray of sunshine for my country's people. Merry Christmas, my beloved homeland.

I often reflect on the character of specific individuals. The character I'm referring to, in a dictionary sense, is not the same as the characters in my book. Writing reveals a person's character like nothing else.

The characters in my poems are never about me; they reflect my willingness to come to terms with them. For the past two years, I have taken on a new character: Who am I? What was I thinking? Who told me I could take on such a huge responsibility?

I have found that friendship is better for business than business is for friendship. I have proven this quote to be true. I always appreciate when someone gives me something, and I cherish that gift until the end.

Years ago, when I was a teenager and times were tough, my cousin and I would borrow things from each other, like clothing. I remember my favorite blouse that I lent to her. I spent almost all my wages to buy that top, yet she took forever to return it to me. One day, I finally mustered the courage to ask her for it back. She promised to return it within a week.

A week passed, then another, and another. I decided to go to her house to retrieve my favorite yellow top. As I walked into her backyard, I saw my yellow silk blouse in the sink, lying in a pile of ***** laundry. My heart stopped for a moment—there it was, green and moldy, crying out to me: "Rescue me!" I couldn't believe my eyes.

She never respected my belongings or those of others. It has been over thirty years, and I still have the pink robe my boss gave me after the birth of my first daughter. I cherish it and appreciate the thoughtfulness behind that wonderful gift. When someone gives us something, we must consider how much they care to choose a token of their love for us.

I often reflect on the character of some people and how they tend to use others. When you can’t come through for them, they sulk and feed on others' sympathy. My advice is this: don’t help people who won’t help themselves. Just walk away and take it from this character.

Dreams


My Foggy images, became the joy of contentment
This toy with me in my dreams

And lead me to false hope of being happy
my pulses race fast, as I wish for it to be true

Even in the my foggy dream the scam builds
Oh, wicked dream, why tease me so,
They say that dream is like a river, and I can’t swim

Either upstream or downstream: no wonder I never win
Ends this nightmare, or put your hands on my weak heart

Morning sun, or bathroom breaks,
just closed down this lucidity overpowering rush

Let this, be my last thousand wistfulness of testing.
My dream choose me, I didn’t choose them!
A briefcase filled with one hundred dollars bills.

A fear of relationships and love often runs deep, tied to the pain that love can bring. The heartbreak, the intimacy of knowing someone deeply, and seeing them with another. They promised us everything, but now they share those promises with someone else. Love can feel like a mortal wound: death ends a life, not a relationship. What is lovely never dies but transforms into another form of beauty.

I harbor resentment towards my ex, but not towards his children. I love Coca-Cola, but not the caffeine. I love the act of intimacy, but not the togetherness it implies. I will always fear love, but I will never forget that one kiss, the last goodbye, and his first hello. The look in his eyes the day he cried. I won’t apologize for protecting my heart. My expectations of him shattered us.

“My soul, wait in silence for God only, for my hope is from Him.” (Luke 3:15)

I shall not fear walking the streets alone, without his hand in mine or his comforting words at the stoplight, “Please wait before we cross.” But I still fear love from mortal men, who can oppress, dehydrate, and suffocate us. However, God’s love never fails. I will always keep my distance from love, even though many say that love is life, and life is worth living with that kind of love. I will never tremble again or grip my heart because love has disappointed me. My love for them is genuine, but their love for me was about the money.

My God is no actor,
he need no script to make a winning role
He is the master of all things
he forgives our debts and our failures
without him, we are nothing

The last time I think of death and breath
In the same sentence: was on an Easter Sunday
And on that day when I saw videos clip over and over of a
Public assassination, a lynching in the year 2020

As humans beings we all need oxygen to live,
Never take it for granted, we need to breath
Same as for the fishes in the ocean they
Need, oxygen too, to survive,

My poems need a wider audience to get
The essence across, demographically
More than a public assassination
My faithful followers is the essence of my poetry/

If I say that they can heal the world in seven days
In the mind of my reader, they will
Probably asked, who does she think she is (God?)

You see the divine is the vaccine, the healer,
I need more time to write, the poems /
That will heal this world, my poems bring
Emotional connection to one’s inner thoughts:

Seeing someone taking them last breath is peaceful
They chest goes up and then down,
slowly with a goodbye
My father was singing, one of Fat Domino
Favorite song, then he slowly closed his eyes:

According to reliable source my x husband,
also struggle to breathe before he took his last  breathe

My gold fish just float to the top of the tank.
The last time I think of death and breath
In the same sentence: was on an Easter Sunday
And twenty minutes ago, before I compose this piece

After, I said goodbye: to my yesterday tears
The sun shifted away from the lemon trees
In requital of my leaving my yesterday behind
Was it a sign, was it my imagination?

I remember their eyes, I remember the tears
I remember their touch,  I remember their
Style, Diction, Tone, and Voice  
which never faded from my mind

I love you, I love you, I love them
and I knew I loved their shameless plug

However, my shameless heart,
and baring soul wanted more,
but never to be their soul mates,
I wanted to be free,
I wanted the other side of fear,
I wanted the other side of fear to rise up with me.

For the wonderful ladies, who loved them for me?
Keep on loving them,
you need them more than I do………

I can never take back the things I have said
The “I love you, my words of the day,
My imperfect gestures: you *******!!
that gesture of affection with my imperfect self, ...

But one thing for sure you can never remake
The thing you have destroyed, (me)
Replacement, is not the same,
Originality is not authentic
They are not one and the same:
I have come to forgive you,

I have come to like the shine of your head again,
I often wondered, if you love your past
Of did you let it explode like ****** gas?

I have taken down the Christmas ornaments
And replace them with the Easter theme
And I am about to think of this unstable spring weather
And what it might happily brings this month:
I did a wonderful thing:

I reached out to friends from a distance,
But fears that some friendship would be interpret the wrong way
I did a wonderful thing: in light that it’s mother’s day
I feared that a war might break out soon
Between America and it’s allied, because of
Mr.Trump strange hands shake style which comes off as lies,
May the God almighty help us?

My words of wisdom or my bittersweet words
The words of my imperfect self during my morning thoughts
Never let them stop you from knowing the true meaning of love
On this mother’s day eve
Lord covers us with your blessing…

Island girl reporting: Demerara Lady
Best Wishes

You may not believe it, but I have tried,
To come to terms with this thing
Called forgive and forget,
While reaching for the tissues box
So what about my hidden scars?
My daily reminders, my mentors
I have tried.. But they taught me to be
Strong, and believe that out of bad comes good

Maybe I ought to tried, a *******
To see if I can came to terms with that too..
With me, myself and I: what a fantastic dual

I love me: and I, was fondling myself.
My evil mind, my impure thoughts
My labor of love: I did try

Poetry writing has taught me a lot throughout the years
I can be original, but I would never master the craft
But I will have a voice of recognition: My human voice

Fear the poets that wielded great power with their pens.

Every time I open my mouth to
Response to idiotic people my language change
It was so early in the morning,
And believe me, I wasn’t in the mood

For female nonsenses: one drops on her knee
And raise her hand to the ceiling, open her mouth
And let out a bunch of nonsense. The other whispered
“God protect me from these evil people,

I look at my co-worker, and he looked at me
Such juvenile malarkey, so early in the morning:
“He said” with a loud Sigh!!!!

I lost another one, it gone, it no longer moves,
What, whom and where, and why!  The baby!
My eyes drop to her knees with such unspoken grief,

I was told that’s where they go for safety:
It had to be some conspiracy:  five small angels
In five years, how does she control those tears?

At the moment, I need a glass of water and two aspirins;
She looks so emotionless and calm: the same exact composer
Like my friend had after the death of her son:

I on the other hand saw myself standing on the edge
Looking down into the darkness of a bottomless pit

Each night, when I go to sleep, I die. And the next morning, when I wake up, I am reborn.”
― Mahatma Gandhi

** If you gave someone your heart and they died,
did they take it with them?
Did you spend the rest of forever with a hole inside you that couldn't be filled?”
― Jodi Picoult,

With a little Nod to Michael R. Burch

Let me give him all the respect he deserve
for his yearly contribution
my heart is now content

Let me give him a Cuban cigar
for my feet stay warm
Without my fluffy socks

Let me give him my favorite pillow
for my head  laid on a patch of hair chest
a warm embrace

Let the warm of his body
Outlast this New York weather
Intervals

Let me give him a guitar
for all sentimental reason
a joy within my heart

Let me give him the keys to my car
for public transportation is costly
  Money is nothing

Let me burn lavender candles
Its lighten the mood
Less worried

the world seem a brighter place
last night
what a lovely Valentine’s eve.
I didn't get to sleep at all.

The words have been the poem,
and a good poem should fulfill us
  It can offer consolation and comfort
in our times of need

Lift up your pens, you upcoming poets write to,
your heart's content,  let your words,
be a conversation topic, be the closing of
the graduation speech, because
rhythmic language thrives, it allows most poems
to speak for themselves.
Who Killed Poetry?
No one did .

Oh, why now? I had prayed for three more years,
Man lived, then we all die, and our resting is decided by a mortal,
Should it be with your father or mother or be by yourself?
I had seen so many old folks took their last breath,
however, to see your mother death bed visions was unsettling
How do we say goodbye, not even knowing,
I refused to say goodbye, my siblings and I refuses to let go,
After all, she was our mother, she was our friend,
She was the go-to, when nothing seems right,
My eldest daughter loves her so much,
Her favorite word was my granny always seems so happy
I had remembered her last shower, she said that she felt so good,
But however, she asked of me not to wet her white golden hair
So, I granted her wish, as she commanded,
However, to see her, in hours of her final departure was still a shocker
Just before dawn prior to her passing
a dove came cooing at my window,
I knew of the dove message so well;
he also visited me at the time of my father passing,
She was 93 years young, her memories were intact
She kept asking, if her girl Nicky was still on the Island
With a smile, she would say, you know that Nicky is my girl,
my replies to her were May, she loves you a lot too"
She hated fans, she had only allowed the cool breeze from the island to
TI enter her room; I must admit I am that way too
I hated to go under the covers while I slept
it felt like I was suffocating
My pores love to breath on their own:
My mental emotion for the following days depends on
My physical state during the following day:
And most of all our skin is nourished by oxygen from my blood (a blessing)
Affirmation
BY DONALD HALL
To grow old is to lose everything.
Aging, everybody knows it.
Even when we are young,
we glimpse it sometimes, and nod our heads quote)
--------------------
Some of us thinks that we will never die,
My mother knew that eventually she would go
She talks about it, she never seems unhappy,
The one she would leave behind doesn't want to accept the facts
On June 1st few members of her church came and pray with her,
I stood and the balcony and could have hear her singing
praising her God so loudly:
It was as if she was on the altar of happiness,
I just stood there and smile,
my mother was a pro until her death.
Her passing is going to change her adult children lives
She travels to America in her mid 50, and she love it,
However, the ones she left behind will honor her memories
Her church picnic days, she loves those,
Corn deals on Sunday night was a bomb,
R.I.P my mother Muriel C.


Elegy for the Passing Years
To grow old is to lose everything—
Aging, a quiet companion we all know.
Even in youth, we glimpse it sometimes,
Nodding our heads in silent recognition.
Some believe they’ll never die,
But my mother knew the truth.
She spoke of it, unafraid,
Her acceptance was a beacon of grace.
On June 1st, members of her church came,
Their presence is a bittersweet chorus.
She was 93 years young, memories intact,
Asking about her girl Nicky on the island.
Fans were forbidden; only the island breeze
Could enter her room, soothing her skin.
I, too, prefer the open air,
Pores breathing freely, a quiet blessing.
And just before dawn, a dove cooed at my window—
A messenger from beyond, familiar and gentle.
I knew then that her departure was near,
Yet how do we say goodbye to a lifetime of love?

I stood in the old church,
At the back, near the entrance,
I haven't set foot in that church over the years,
It could be over thirty years to be exact
And there I was two times in one year,
Country churches have a warmth to them
Small and yet personal effects on one core
Friendship is rightly defined as a small church
My reason for being there was to say my goodbyes
To my loved ones, my mother and my godmother,
📷
Looking back on the moment, it was so nostalgic
So surreal, and all I was saying to myself, why, take her?
It was so good to see some folks I have not seen in years,
Their aging body fades their look,
I too was not the same, being sixty-seven isn’t easy.
I attended my childhood school year church,
St Matthews, I smile just looking at the old
Church, so many memories,
Father heard the prayer we offered,
But for the ease, that prayer shall be,
But for the strength, prayers give us,
2024 will be the year, that brought my family together
It was so wonderful to see all of them
From the young to the old,
I never got to go to the lovely beach on the Island
I just didn't want to,
Too much of everything all at once isn’t good.
Today my lower waistline is paining,
However, I can compose warm memories of July 2024.

My pocket poems
Isn’t worth much dowry
However, it’s all mine
Like nickel and dimes
Silver, or gold.
Tell out, my soul, to the world

If my poem arouses you then I know
I am doing something good
I am the poet,
the narrator of this poem
I write what I feel,
I say what I like
Somehow, I captivate my audience
Who I am, and who you think I am
or what you think of me.
Have no bearings  
on this poet's work

Therefore, I am who I am,
without the smearing
I am from this Century
where I am free from *******,
my words spread in a nanosecond,
across the internet,
however, my lip are sealed
my poetic spirit guides me:
until it’s time to orchestra
an forgettable vogon list of  poems
with my unique vernacular

I can take you the mountain top and
Make you believe it’s easy to climb
I can make you reach for the star,
Knowing that it’s unreachable by far

Life has a way of making you fall on your behind
The language I use, it far too complicated
Because I celebrates life with poetry
As well as I loathes it

So what’s your question?
I probably knows the answer

I am the poet whose work, others thought
Was useless, So, I did just once
What they say I couldn’t do
I got creative, just to get their attention
Somehow, motivation and meditation moves me

But to blend all the Kool-Aid flavors together seems so unreal
So instead, I focus on the small trees amongst the tall trees
Canst thou prophesy, thou little tree,
What the glory of the boughs shall be

I woke up this morning, the other, they stay in bed
I breathe life into this experimental poem, while they
They lay there like a tombstone,
you might get where I am going with this image

When the poet writes, his audience connects with him
The others, they lay there like a tombstone.
my poetry know no solitude, my podium; my stadium, my voice
I can be free in the world--free to speak even when my words are not received

I will not follow in the paths of day anymore
back when our thoughts  were not entirely intact,
we must not make the same mistake we made last year.

The hours were long, our wages were small
Somehow, we need and wants were getting greater
Like mines, I wanted more boxes of lobster tails from Maine
But instead I purchase bags of rotten potatoes from the local grocery stores
Did the customers get the most nutrition out of Idaho Potatoes?
Hell no!

I had to make the connection with the dots to connect to the future
It wasn’t an overlooked of the payroll mistakes
It was the greed of the political investors,
But those classes of people, unions, lawyers, and businessmen
Those ******* laboring class of upper people rob us.

Time has passed and hearts were broken
So many innocent lives were taken away from us.
Either by drowning in the rough sea or they got hit by the city buses

They tear us down on every side till  we were numb
They uproot our hope like a tree
Some of us fought with our body to rise,
But encounters dark passages on the rough seas
We shall not follow on the path of the day anymore
A new year, a new beginning, a fresh wipe, a clean slate

Be quiet so you won’t be heard anymore. You might have heard this phrase growing up. Why do people think it’s their job to silence others and stop them from speaking freely?

Every spoken word should be heard, like a loud ringtone from a cell phone that signals someone is calling. Everyone deserves to be heard.

My grandparents and parents believed they should silence me as a poet when I was a child. At one point, I found it hard to speak up. People kept asking why I was so shy. Why was I afraid to talk to adults? My shyness turned into social anxiety. With my friends, though, I spoke confidently. Adults intimidated me because they used commanding language: “Be quiet so you won’t be heard anymore.”

As an adult, I struggle to follow orders or deal with condescension. Maybe that’s why I love writing so much. When I write, only I can hear my voice. It wasn’t until I shared my work that I let others see my thoughts. I had stayed silent for too long and held back my feelings for too long. I decided to confront those who silenced me with my own spoken words.

"Language is powerful; it is the greatest science. It captures the fullness, color, and diversity of the world and of people. It is more valuable than wealth, buildings, ships, religions, paintings, or music." — Walt Whitman.

My sister as a child and my sister as adult
we are not the comparison and contrast kind of people
Her outlook on life and my lifestyle never clicks
I said more sugar
She wants less, I add more nutmeg,
She adds more cloves,
I am hot; I stood there and watch her shivering

She love Drew and Jonathan Scott from HGTV's
I love Chip and Joanna Barnes the stars of Fixer Upper
I am the caramel base; she is the creamy yellow coated

I have lived so long, with loneliness, it became a part of my family tree
I love the peace and quiet,
I detest the invasion of my personal space.

Under my white tray roofing, I accepted my lifestyle,
But to have my fluffy rug under my toes,
On a cold winter morning is a great start to my day.
Oh, how, I breathed a sigh of relief,
holding on to my cold glass of spiked eggnog

Confusion
Oh, for the love of the younger me
Torn between feelings for my teenager lovers
Protecting my heart from the lying *******
I ran from their clutches and I spread my wings

Somehow, one of them gets to follow me
On the devil playground call modern directory
Gazing into my life day after, day after day
making it seem like getting older make us restless and hopeless. .

Oh, for the love of the younger me
Torn between my feelings for my teenager lovers
Still running and protecting my heart from their lies
Those lying ******* from my youth

Meow power does exist.

Never keep the ashes of your love ones bottled
To free a spirit is to free ones soul:
I believe in doing a deal once a week for someone<

Something about that feeling stimulate the inner me
It is more fulfilling than when they stimulate our *******,
Isn’t the …. good enough to get the job done?

Poetry writing moves me,
Old ancient painting and building get my attention,
I always sense the inner spirit of others
No matter how far away, they might be:
Sometimes, my stories are too sad to be told:

Flush the negativity out of your heart. Believe that life is awesome, and you have the chance to make the most of it.Quotes

However, do bear in mind that …It is not easy to shake off the gloom. The more you try to run away from it, the more it chases you. So let us learn to face our sadness: Quotes

Come and take me with you to the chamber of love,
and prove your love to me once more
So strongly scented, I smell the Jasmine in the front yard
This made my heart calms by itself

  We sat on the bed and gazed deeply into each other eyes
Suddenly, I saw verse within a song.
and my unwritten poem to be published based on my emotions.

Hold your arms out wide for my welcoming,
Let the shyness of you shake like a leaf
Bring out that swagger moves:

That, lion wait to devour someone,
Lift up thy chin, pulled back those shoulder,
Hold your arms out wide for my welcoming:
Let the lingering scent of my oil, blast that
Burning fire, because all eyes are on me

The snow Queen shall melt faster in the sun:
Before, the jumbo jet takes a rest.
Walking toward you, and only you:
Unleashing the tigress within my soul:

I may walked like Jessica Rabbit
But purr and walked like a white Persian cat:
Let my walks tell my story.

I look through Nana's broken window so many times
However, today it seems so different
watching the blackbirds in the
avocados trees pecking at the fruits

Nana harvests the best ripe avocados pears
The color of dark burgundy, and green
All came from that old worn out tree;

Every year we would carefully inspect each pear
before packing them in the  brown barrel
they were moist and delicious on the inside
so easy to peel , those lovely ripen pears.

Here I am today about to,
open the last mark box of Nana's things
I unfold the last item slowly;
All wrapped up in old newspaper
was her bread pan;
the one with the two handles
an old  burnt crumb lodged in the corners of the pan
I smile, I weep,

Hello! To you too Nana

Naughty Nice

*Her skin glows like the Grapes,
My yearning heart rises to your piano voice
and leaps like a dog at the whisper of your name,
Annie, my naughty Nice.

The evening ascends in on a great sparrow wing.
I am calmed by her tight fitted Blue Jeans
that  image I will carry into the twilight of the Rommel beams,
which hold next to my legs.

I am filled with hope that I may dry her tears of fear
As my arms falls from her blouse,
it reminds me of our secret house.

In the hushed, I listen for the last chain of the spring.
My heated face leaps to her summer dress.
I wait in the crystal moonlight in our secret place,
so that we may jump as one, face to face,
in search of the glorious yellow and spiritual glass of love

Light hearted when I am with him
Devastated when we are apart,
I am a dreamer; he is a lay backer,
Without a genuine heart, our love is
like a unnatural clip from noughts&crosses
hate destroy lives, love can bring it back together
However, what is left of my Love for him dies each day:

We are apart, because it is impossible to settle this kind of love
We never dance; we never kiss on the dance floor
Our rhythm never entwined, he had no rhythm,
So I never experience a kiss on the dance floor,

Feelings alters when replace by loneliness
Love bails,
when a marriage fails,
wishing and hoping that our love would
be enough to hold them
Unlike a poor man's flowers picked fresh from the fields..
Without adversity
Free for plucking, never got a chance to blossoms
my love for him was marginal:
However, nothing but  deep respect for him
a part of me will always have to choose,
so, I choose to be happy , I choose loneliness
before, confusing pity for love..

Sometimes we don’t
Even realize it but we die
A million times over and over,
Reincarnation, we keep trying
To do it right, they keep getting
It wrong: walking through the
Exit to the left, and enter
Through the right:
And there you are trap again,
Inside the body of a ****:
Begging for your life:
You want to turn around
And take another door with
The golden logo: you must
Never knock, just open that
Door and walk in with
Confident:  what happened?
Next, depend on the first face
You encounter, never look directly
into the eyes of any one, never smile
Let the new subjects called
Your name, did your name
Sound like a boy name or
A girl name:  was it easy to
Remember: it’s a new beginning
Impurities from the old you:
Born again: it time to latch on


**Pray to God with tears in your eyes whenever you want illumination or find yourself faced with any doubt or difficulty.

Chasing rainbows in the dark
Nothing is perfect
For him I am perfect
Then I remember something
I never like the ****** look on his face:

The poor chap couldn’t recognize the
New double act:

It’s your time to shine:  my youth is fading
My words, my voice might be erased
Nevertheless, there’s one more lesson to be told my child
  Take life slow, live, breathe and learn.
Night comes and the day comes. And there you are alone
Night owls never stay faithful

Life is like a camera, so,  

We must capture each moment

Like a pro, with the important

Of being sweet and innocents as  

We held them closer to our hearts,

the eyes of her grandmothers

The fingers of her father,

Said its all, a princess of both worlds

Our number one girl, Nyla

And old saying, if we raise our children right

And without spoil them,  

We will not have to end up raising our grandbabies,



Her mother smiles when her baby smiles

A grandmother laughs out loud  

When her grandbaby gurgle at her

As she coo and make eyes contact,



We just have to listen to find real poetry,

As we make any day with Nila our favorite day,

Pink looks well on her, as we capture,

The beauty of an adventure future Queen,

I saw adventure,

I saw the colors of the rainbow,  

I saw Ilene smiling in heaven,

I saw prophet, prophesying,  

I saw two families coming together from different world,

The cool color of pink symbolizes the joy of happiness

As I listen to the sound of real poetry

My cousin, our sweet pea, my cotton candy,  

Our baby Nila..

,

Heavy winter snow

The snow on the street
looks so depressing
Black oily piles in
so many places,
the drains
the side walk
not even a living creature in sight

I ponder'd about frozen bodies
under the sad looking pile
I long for the island sun, the warmth,
and the fresh misty air
One might say who cares
But today I care when
I saw the looks upon their faces,

As the cold ripped through they flimsy clothing
then I thought about life
what is the purpose of existence?
when the other half is living
and the other sufferers
In silence

The light that once gleamed from my eyes, the golden beam that upstage  my caramel cheeks; my rude lips upon which he pressed his own hungrily—my naïve body, darker than the night: rejected  his hours of longing: I just can’t forget that day he walked away”

November





Helen Hunt Jackson
.
This is the treacherous month when autumn days
With summer’s voice come bearing summer’s gifts.
Beguiled, the pale down-trodden aster lifts
Her head and blooms again. The soft, warm haze
Makes moist once more the sere and dusty ways,
And, creeping through where dead leaves lie in drifts,
The violet returns. Snow noiseless sifts
Ere night, an icy shroud, which morning’s rays
Will idly shine upon and slowly melt,
Too late to bid the violet live again.
The treachery, at last, too late, is plain;
Bare are the places where the sweet flowers dwelt.
What joy sufficient hath November felt?
What profit from the violet’s day of pain?

He gathers up his belongings and board the train
A little hunger contribute to his weary load/
which can be promising or can be fatal
No matters what the day might bring
He just has to move on because he is
worthy of human  interaction.


even though the world has marched along,
His unsteady gait, his hours of stinks,
Passerby, will complain,
even  through the eyes, of empathy
he stink or life stinks?

He knows the looks upon the faces of deep
He will continued to smile, with grace
See  him, smell him,  he is still alive

Your loves ones are dead, per say.
Your, nurses, your doctors, your actors,
your funeral directors,
and there he stood that happy ******,
stilling repasting and idling/

On the city train/ your flat forms/ alleys and doorways
Dreaming, how it was, when he was activated/  
And was once cherish by a special  love

Now the earth is formless and empty,
darkness is over the surface of the deep,
and the Spirit of God is hovering over the waters.

Your states are drowning
in stench, of death
Fear not want not,  
while he is homeless,
But content this ******,

the vagrant!

A survivor a moth without the mold,
A fire, without smoke, the hungry man
Without food, a man without a home,
And with all the pity that you feel,

Take heel, death is permanent
Homelessness is not a disease,
Corona Corvid 19 is the infectious virus

Wear, the mask, adhere to the rules
he whispered to me
his homely, homelessness is not our war,
You are their underground enemy >>

For love

You forget your true identity,
you walked around half daze
video chatting for hours on  IMO
Without the awareness of monthly data usages

You filled up your lungs up with air
a constant feuded, about the profoundly tender
Letting, go of the cheese for the shadows
While, losing yourself in a foggy dream

I am holding on tight to my Linguistic style
and not for, that kind of love

I am like the best opening lines in my poems
Waiting to be read, by others and not for love

When I close my eyes,
I can picture myself being ****
I wrote down my ideas on my naked body
not the perfect curves, for an outstanding silhouette?
but my body, my canvas,
I created this literary masterpiece:
a little something for you and a little something for me,

I scribble a stanza or two on my chest,
and I watch as my body heat melt the words away
without allowing a poem to be created

My ****** tattoos open up like rose from the poem
Rose is a rose is a rose is a rose one from Gertrude Stein famous line.

Outline my words with admiration,
until my mind accept the connection
My body, my canvas, my visionary centerpiece, my satisfaction,
Like sand through an hour glass,
I have created this body of poetry.